


Race to the Bottom

by Vulgarweed



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the angel and the demon want the same thing. Alas, they can't both have it at the same time. Perhaps they should have a talk about it? Nah, that would take all the challenge out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Race to the Bottom

_written for Quantum Witch on the occasion of her birthday._

***

**Race to the Bottom**

Aziraphale is on his back again. He'd begged for it too sweetly to be denied.

There are pine needles in his hair and the ground is smooth and the breeze is soft and Crowley is ardent and insistent in his arms — and maddeningly gentle. His wings are shielding the angel's eyes from the sun and his soft kisses are taking the edge off the sort of whispered words that demons ought to be able to say so much more easily than angels but they stammer sometimes on Crowley's tongue.

They are exactly the same age, if they can be said to have age at all – born of the same Thought before Time was — so how had Crowley got so _young?_ Childlike even. Moody and petulant and sometimes so fiercely, recklessly brave and sometimes scared of thunder, of open doorways in the dark. Selfish in such an innocent way — distracted by shinies like a magpie - Aziraphale can never stay angry.

He doesn't seem so selfish now, but he is — moving so slowly in and out with oblivious grace, lost in his own rapt rhythm. The way he takes his time with Aziraphale's body is not so much like the demanding, tantrum-throwing sort of child as the lone, imaginative kind who builds a whole kingdom in his mind of tiny twigs and stones and rules it for a century in an afternoon. One doesn't like thinking of one's —_lover,_ oh dear — as a child at all, and so Aziraphale tries not to, tries not to think about what he really does want: yellow eyes burning brightly on him, teeth bared, clash of wings in the air; he wants his Adversary back for a while, violating him with carnal ferocity-and thorough knowledge of his weaknesses. (This is not actually on the long list of things angels aren't supposed to want, because it had never occurred to anyone Upstairs that an angel might ever possibly come to want it.)

After all, it's not as if this, what they're doing right now, is actually unpleasant, not by a long shot. Crowley is utterly beautiful like this, sweat-damped and shining and the sensation is not at all heavenly, it is earthly in the best possible way – like music taking over his body, stimulating secret places, singing to him.

And it's not much different when the roles are reversed, when he's dancing into Crowley's tight flesh and those eyes flutter open and closed and maybe one flexible leg wraps around his waist and Aziraphale thinks he can still see a little angel in him but knows if he said that Crowley would just smirk dreamily and say he'd like a little _more_ angel in him and bite his lip and move and then Aziraphale would…

Doing anything that might hurt either of them was out of the question of course, but Crowley did seem to like…well, someday he might suggest…

_Oh._

***

Crowley is on his knees again.

The shades are down and the dark leaks through them; there is scuffed hardwood under him and Aziraphale before him, and that's the way he likes it: no distractions. His lips are tugging eagerly at the velvety skin, his tongue slithering around the shaft's length, and when he dips all the way down, honey-brown sex-scented curls tickle his nose, and he feels like he's spent the last few thousand years just practicing for this, the one that matters, the Blowjob at the End of the World.

There are soft, startled groans coming from up above him, and the legs he clutches are trembling. Aziraphale is moving with his strokes now, a little convulsively, and Crowley wants more. The hand of Aziraphale's that's in his hair is twitching, trying to stroke gently, but the one that braces against the wall is taking off streaks of paint in his nails, and that's the one Crowley really wants on him. He wants to be used, he wants to be forced, he wants the angel to hold his head still and fuck his mouth like he's trying to shove his whole body down Crowley's throat cock first. (He can take it after all; he doesn't have to breathe, and the weird things he can do with his tongue are nothing compared to what he can do with his _jaw_) He wants to be soundly defeated once in a while, wants to be Aziraphale's conquest, his plaything, his whore.

"So…so good…Crowley, I'm going to-"

"Mmm-hmmm," Crowley purrs smugly. _That's the idea. Why the warning?_ It's not like he doesn't know. Well, the power's his, it seems; a shame not to use it. His nails dig into Aziraphale's hips, grasping, encouraging, swallowing the delicious sudden heat in his throat.

It's not as if he doesn't love doing this for its own sake, after all. That heat, that drive, that…it's so fucking infectious, and being drunk on one's own power is fun too, especially when it makes Aziraphale make sounds like that. Perhaps he might hint, suggest somehow – but if his roughness and urgency wasn't a big enough clue, he'd probably have to…

He loses the thought when Aziraphale sinks to his knees against him, and the angel's mouth is on his, and his tongue is invading, and his hand is—

_Oh. Yess._

***

They're on the Apocalypse again.

It's an awful piece of conversation to have stuck in your throat like a curly little hair that simply won't go away.

"We'll win, of course," says Aziraphale in a clipped, distant tone.

It's a meaningless statement – no matter if Heaven or Hell in fact wins, the "we" they both really think of as "we" will lose. Crowley is furious that he even still says it, and Aziraphale knows this, which is why he does.

It makes them both hate Time, this alien thing that keeps pulling them forward towards the unthinkable. It also pulls them further and further away from the days when they thought that fighting each other mattered, that they could create a little Apocalypse between themselves and ward off the real horror — a ritualising, a bit of silly magical thinking that had been. But now the shelter they've made of it might not hold either, and all their thousands of years of insider-trading theology turn to ashes, and they're tussling across the floor almost like in the old days, clothes tearing and wings bent at painful angles, and the biggest difference is that there's rarely any blood and often they laugh.

What they can't admit is that the one who winds up pinned beneath is the _winner._ They celebrate the thrill of defeat with a great show of struggle, as they vie for a dominance that neither really wants — not this time.

Crowley's worse at faking it. His panting, his wide pupils, his hardness give it away every time, and he does look so fetching with his hair against the floor and his sunglasses fallen far away and his arms and legs splayed, inviting…_hoping_, but never speaking it.

And then something clicks in Aziraphale's mind.

Had he ever fought fair? Probably not. He is a demon, after all.

"You owe me," Aziraphale growls, keeping the laughter out of his voice by heroic effort.

"Then make me pay," Crowley whispers, forcing a laugh into his.

"I will, snake, and then you'll owe me more." Crowley's well-earned ravishment is untamed and thorough and whole-hearted, and for all that hissed babble of being Aziraphale's abject slave for an hour or a night or forever, they're both well-aware of who's really being served. He even gets the fierce commands, the little marks and bruises – everything he wanted.

The next time Aziraphale darkens the bookshop and prepares to leave, he's quickly seized from behind. He panics for a split second although he knows the presence well – that's part of the game. There are teeth grazing his neck and hands slipping under his shirt, undoing his belt. Crowley's clearly not faking this either, and as he bends Aziraphale roughly over the low counter, the angel admires his skill in following instructions. (Even the unspoken ones.) Neither lasts long. They don't have to.

***

They're on their sides, curled around each other again, recovering with silly smiles unremovable.

Aziraphale thinks Crowley might better tolerate having love poetry read to him in the future.

Crowley thinks he might try bringing up some of those places - those not-at-all-discreet gentlemen's clubs - again someday soon.

The world doesn't even realise it's in slightly better balance now – butterfly wings and tsunamis and all that.

 

~fin~


End file.
